A newspaper vendor in the nineteenth century could always ensure sales with the gruesome cry “Murder! ‘Orrible Murder!” Published around 1870, the Victorian tabloid The Illustrated Police News took this business angle to heart. It had the largest circulation of any periodical of that time and fed the public on a weekly diet of real-life horrors calculated to chill the strongest stomach and boost the next issue’s sales.

So our charge was to write 500 - 1,000 words, using one of the photos they provided. You can see the full slate by clicking on the "Rogues Gallery" link above. Here is the photo I chose.

And here is my story.

"A New Beginning"

Abigail
reached out deliberately, and found her powder puff. She applied a
light dusting to her nose and chin, then replaced it just so. Next,
the lipstick, which she always kept to the right of the powder tin.
Satisfied that her lips bore a satisfactory shade of red, Abigail put
down the tube.

She
sighed.

After the
year she had had—they had—she wanted this, their third
anniversary, to be special.

And
unmarred, as was last year’s.

“Nathan?”
she called. “Nathan, could you please come here for a moment?”

She
strained to pick his footsteps
out from the mélange of creaks and groans typical of an older home.
Hearing none, she felt a slight, rising sense of panic. Deep within,
she knew nothing was wrong. She knew he would come. He always did.
But perhaps this time...

“No!”
she said firmly. “He would not leave me. Not today.”

Slightly
more than one year ago she had remarked—completely innocently—how
intriguing she found a new appliance that she had seen on display at
Harrods. The gas-fired stove, the placards proclaimed, would
“revolutionize the culinary arts.” Abigail did, indeed, love to
cook. But she so hated their coal oven, as its messy soot would
speckle her frock, frequently white, as white was her preferred
color.

Returning from an afternoon
stroll the day of their second anniversary, Nathan said playfully, “I
have a surprise for you.”

“What is it?” gushed
Abigail, who had always loved surprises.

“Come with me,” he said,
covering her eyes with his beefy hands.

She could discern that he had
led her into the kitchen. Before she had an opportunity to guess, her
removed his hands. There, before her, stood a shiny new stove.

“Oh, Nathan!” she said as
she threw her arms around his neck, and showered him with kisses.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

She bit her lip and nodded.

“You are going to enjoy a
special meal tonight, Mr.
Graves,” she vowed.

Unfortunately, the dinner did
not go as planned.

Checking on the roast, she found
it half cooked, and the oven considerably cooler than she would have
expected. She called Nathan,
and asked if he could take a look at it.

“Stand back,” he cautioned
as he leaned into the oven with a lighted match.

A blue ball of fire erupted from
within. The force threw her back. She landed supine several feet
removed from her previous position. With great effort, Abigail
managed to raise her head. The last thing she remembered seeing was
Nathan’s waistcoat afire. The last thing she heard were his
screams. Then, a second wall of flame spat out, and headed toward
her...

“Damned oven. I never should
have asked for,” she said, quietly, as she placed on her right
wrist her favorite bracelet, Nathan’s gift of two years ago.

Abigail
stared into the mirror, but did not react to the walking corpse.

It drew nearer.

Nearer.

It stopped just within arm’s
reach.

“I apologize for my tardiness,
dearest. I was down in the library, and did not hear you at first.”

“Would you help me with my
corset?”

“Of course, dearest. And happy
anniversary.”

She began to cry. He gently
shushed her.

“Now, now. There’s no need.
You’re not still blaming yourself for what happened, are you?”

“No,” she lied.

But how could she not?
How could she not carry guilt, and regret the burden she had imposed
upon Nathan? She certainly felt like less of a wife. They’d
not shared their marital bed since that night. He claimed—indeed,
avowed—that the pain had, for all intents and purposes, completely
subsided. Still, while asleep
he oftentimes would fidget, he would say, and feared that he
would disturb her rest. She said that she believed him. But late at
night, many nights, she would hear him wailing, his
moan easily traversing the thin wall between their chambers.

In fact, she had not felt him,
touched him, since that awful day. When she awoke, she realized

that
someone had carried her to her bed. Her head ached, and her world was
black. She assumed that it was midnight. But the ambient air felt
warm. She reached up and felt her face. Her eyes were bandaged.
Terrified, she sat upright and called out. “Hello! Nathan! Anyone!
Is anyone there?”

She heard labored footsteps
enter the room.

“I’m here, dearest,” came
Nathan’s voice, somehow different.

“What happened, Nathan?”

“What do you remember?”

She had to pause, and work to
recall. As the memory came flooding back, she screamed.

“My god, Nathan! The fire! You
were on fire.”

“I’m fine. Do not concern
yourself with me. It is you, whom I am worried about. Because of
your—”

“My eyes?” she asked
hesitantly.

“The doctors say that
you...may regain your vision.”

One year removed from the
accident, she had not.

“Now, now,” Nathan reassured
her. “Abigail, dearest, you can be brave. You are brave. I
confess that I admire your strength, your perseverance, in this face
of this adversity.”

She muttered a subdued thank
you.

“Do you remember what I told
you a few days ago?” Nathan continued.

She did. He told her, promised
her, that their lives would return to the way it had been. That they
would enjoy a normal life once again.

No.

That was not quite what he had
said. He said they soon would enjoy a new beginning. Yes, “a new
beginning.”

“How is that?” Nathan asked,
pulling the laces.

“A little tighter, if you
can.”

“I’ll try.”

Sensing him, how close he stood,
she hazarded a reach back to touch his hand. She fought herself to
refrain from recoiling away from its icy hardness.

“Nathan!” she gasped. “You
must eat more. You’re nothing but skin and bones.”

He smiled, his grin grotesquely
wide, unfettered by lips. “You’re half right.” He gave the
strings one final, supernatural tug. “And soon, dearest,
you shall be as well.”

About Me

Father & husband, which has to be #1. Writer of novels, short stories, poetry, flash fiction, and the future. Movie aficionado, who now can actually watch movies once again now that we can leave the kids alone. (For a little while.) Musician, who gets in about one hour of practice each quarter.